


Sometimes We're Nothing Special

by Ferrenbach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Affection, Alcohol, Conversations, Cooking, Crass humour, Gen, Introspection, Language, Movie Night, Music, Phase Four (Gorillaz), Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 19:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrenbach/pseuds/Ferrenbach
Summary: Some nights, everyone gets along, nothing much happens, and that's okay.





	Sometimes We're Nothing Special

“Cooking?”

Russel feigned shock, clapping a hand to his chest, as Noodle cast him an exasperated glance tinged with amusement. She was sautéing vegetables in a pan, which was not unknown to her, but unusual enough to merit comment.

Russel fished a piece of carrot out with a fork, dancing away from Noodle’s protests and attempts to hip-check him, blew on it to cool it, and popped it in his mouth.

“What’s the occasion?” he said, relegating the vegetable to one cheek.

“2-D and I are marathoning horror movies,” she told him. She gestured toward the rice cooker, which was in use. “I’m making stir-fry.”

“Not the usual movie fare,” Russel pointed out, risking Noodle’s wrath to secure a piece of broccoli. She would never miss it, he thought, given the amount she was cooking.

Noodle only rolled her eyes at him.

“No, but we’re starting before supper, so this will mean we don’t have to get up,” she told him. “We’ll have snacks too. It wouldn’t be a movie-fest without them.”

“Think you’ve got enough there? Looks like you robbed a green grocer.”

“We-ell,” Noodle said with only the faintest hint of disapproval. “Given he’s already had a couple of beers and will probably light up the moment the first movie’s on, by the time we’re ready to eat it, 2-D’ll be exactly the right combination of drunk and high to be utterly starving. I thought it best to fill him up with something better than microwaved burritos or chicken nuggets.”

“Nothing wrong with chicken nuggets,” Russel said.

“Really? ‘Cause he gets impatient and microwaves those too,” Noodle told him. “You ever eat a microwaved chicken nugget? They are vile.”

“Bad enough to merit vocabulary,” Russel joked.

“ _Vile_ ,” Noodle insisted. “I could ask Murdoc to have Satan pick his nose and microwave whatever comes out on a plate and it would still be better than microwaved chicken nuggets. Chickens weep to think their lives were given only to be desecrated as a microwaved chicken nugget.”

“Sounds disgusting,” Russel agreed amiably. “I thought you insisted we only buy those soy ones these days.”

“They’re even worse,” Noodle hissed, her nose wrinkling in sheer disgust. “I didn’t think that was possible, but it is. It so very is…”

“I’ve never tried ’em, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” Russel told her, putting the fork in the sink. “Although I’m always up for a microwaved burrito. Might grab one now,” he added, fishing one out of the freezer.

“Don’t come near me for the next three days then,” Noodle said. “I don’t trust any of you after burritos. It’s like chemical warfare up in here.”

“Yeah, well I got news for you about your cabbage and broccoli,” Russel told her as the microwave ran. “Asparagus don’t make you piss rosewater either.”

He laughed as Noodle flipped him off and fished a piece of broccoli out of her pan in retaliation.

“I’m saving that one for your room,” she told him, pausing for the microwave’s strident beeping. “Your burrito’s done.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Russel said as Noodle saluted him. “I’ll leave you to your stir-fry. I got some shit to work on. Enjoy the movies.”

Russel fished his burrito out of the microwave and carried it through the front room where 2-D fretted over the layout of the movie nests, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Mixed, Russel noted, catching a whiff of the smoke. Either he was getting his high on early or trying to draw it out. It would depend on how quickly he switched to pure marijuana, if at all.

“Hey, D,” Russel greeted him. 2-D took the cigarette from his mouth, nodded and grinned, and propped his vice in whatever dish was serving as an ashtray. “What’cha up to?”

“Fightin’ the blanket monster.”

“Sounds dirty,” Russel said, eliciting a snicker. 2-D had all the comedic sensibilities of a twelve-year-old.

“No, I’m watching films with Noodle,” 2-D informed him. “Gotta have blankets an’ pillows, you know.”

“You’re not gonna pull the sofa out?”

“No, we need the table for snacks.” 2-D considered the size of the coffee table. “Well, mainly for drinks. They fall over if you try to balance ‘em on the bed. An’ well…”

“No one likes sleeping in the wet spot,” Russel finished, earning himself another muted chuckle. “What’re you two watching?”

“Oh, um… different things,” 2-D told him. “Some low-budget stuff—“

“Trash,” Russel interjected, grinning.

“Maybe,” 2-D laughed. “Dunno until we watch ‘em. Some are pretty good, really. We got one with roller derby that’s prob’ly trash, but also got _Dawn of the Dead_ , so a’s a’right. Dun suppose you wanna watch ‘em with us?”

“Nah.” Russel knew he would not be unwelcome if he accepted, but also knew he would feel out of place, intruding upon a dynamic he did not fully comprehend. Besides which, he had never been a big fan of horror movies. “Not really my style. I’ll probably work on some stuff. Been tinkering with a new sound machine.”

“Oh yeah?” 2-D said, interest piqued. More than the band’s drummer, Russel was their percussionist, responsible for the rhythm regardless of how it was delivered. While he liked taking a hands-on approach with his drum set, in this digitized age, he often found it expedient to use machinery. However, he eschewed the use of pre-fabricated equipment and custom-built the band’s rhythm machines, keeping total control of the sound that went into and came out of the devices. “You gonna need a hand?”

“Not tonight,” Russel told him. 2-D had a way with electronics and Russel usually enlisted his help to fine-tune his creations. “I’m still in early input stages. Might need a hand a little later though.”

2-D nodded. “I can do that. Just let me know when you’re ready. I wanna hear how it sounds.”

“Will do. I’ll let you and Noodle get on with the movies,” Russel said. “She was throwing food together when I left her, so she should be ready to start soon.”

“Best get this done, then,” 2-D said, shaking out a blanket and raising his hand to acknowledge Russel as he left.

A peaceful night, Russel decided, heading up toward his room. That was something he could get behind.

An intricate baseline drifted into the hall and down the stairs and Russel followed it to its only possible source. Murdoc, his bedroom door uncharacteristically open, lounged on a love seat draped with plush, velveteen coverings, working the strings of El Diablo with practised ease. With the skill of the Devil himself, some might have said, and Murdoc would not have disabused them of that notion. However, both he and Russel knew better. Whatever Murdoc’s other shortcomings, he knew his music, and he could make his bass talk like no other instrument.

“New song?” Russel said as the current thread wound down.

The sudden address startled Murdoc, although he tried not to show it, turning his sudden tension into a deliberate reach for a glass on the floor and taking a drink.

“I haven’t decided,” he said, offering a forced predatory grin. It softened a little when Russel snorted, unimpressed and undeceived.

“Hey, you got the same right to a lazy night as anyone else,” Russel told him. “This album was huge. Tons of time. Tons of talent. Tons of promo yet to come. We’ve got some breathing space while the technical work is being done, so we might as well enjoy it.”

“Enjoy.” Murdoc’s expression darkened into something rueful, and then cleared up as though nothing had happened.

However, Russel could not be fooled.

“I get ya,” he said. “Feels like the world’s going to Hell in a handbasket.”

“Please,” Murdoc said, taking another drink. “Hell I could deal with. You know where you stand with Hell. It’s all this other nonsense. It weighs on a soul. Days like this, it’d be a blessing to be 2-D: mindlessly content in a room full of monster movies.”

“D has his own problems,” Russel said, a rather delicate assessment if ever there was one, “and he’s not unaware.”

Murdoc sat in silence a moment, contemplating his drink.

“No, I suppose not,” he agreed, a minor miracle in itself, “although I doubt he really knows what to make of things. He doesn’t reason them out. He feels them. And then he tries to describe them like they’re in a picture book. Bloody round-about way to go about it. At least Noodle’s back to interpret. Smarter than all of us, that one.”

“And yet, also mindlessly content in a room full of monster movies,” Russel grinned. “She has a pretty good handle on things. Hard as it is, sometimes you’ve just gotta accept that there’s nothing you can do, not right now, and take a night off to… jam and fiddle with rhythm machines.”

“True,” Murdoc said, seeming relieved that someone else had said it. He waved at a small side table near the doorway where a half empty bottle stood next to a tray of glasses. “Grab a drink and a seat, if you’ve a fancy. I could use some music talk. Not too much, mind. I’ve a notion to head into town and find a pub that hasn’t got my face pinned above the bar.”

“Can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want you in their fine drinking establishment,” Russel said, helping himself to what the label described as single malt, but the smell suggested was paint stripper. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Watch your cheek,” Murdoc replied, “and you’re welcome. Don’t tell 2-D I shared with you or he’ll want some too. Bloody leech.”

Russel ignored the comment, knowing Murdoc didn’t mean it and was only fronting for the sake of his own ego. He turned instead to music as initially suggested, taking a seat on the edge of Murdoc’s bed as they discussed the collaborator contributions on their most recent album. As obnoxious as Murdoc could be, he knew his stuff. He had hunted down and absorbed a staggering amount of musical knowledge and his technical abilities outstripped 2-D’s by a significant margin. Murdoc’s musical prowess was the reason Russel had bothered staying with the band in the first place and continued to return against his better judgement.

Murdoc maintained that if he had been better looking, with a more pleasing voice, he could have taken the music scene by storm as a solo artist. Russel thought Murdoc’s shit personality had more to do with past failures, never mind his ability to continually shoot his own plans in the foot. He was self-serving and self-aggrandizing, given to spectacles that he blew out of proportion until they ran amok, too unwieldy to control.

But Russel kept his opinions to himself unless the need arose for a take-down. Tonight, the mood was one of rare calm and carefully controlled enthusiasm. They offered up the specialties of their musical interests, comparing and contrasting, finding the places where they overlapped. They fantasized about future collaborations and lamented those that could never be, their potential artists dead and gone, the world deprived of their talents. They discussed the snippets of music that did not make it into the last album and debated what would be done with them, if anything should be done with them at all, and charted the band’s possible future, leaving it as open and flexible as possible, littering it with snide comments and the odd dirty joke.

After a time and a couple of drinks, Murdoc glanced at his phone and entered a routine that signalled a preparation to leave.

“Now that the axles have been greased, I’d best be off,” he said, settling El Diablo on its stand and performing the elaborate stretches of those who were Not Getting Any Younger. “Good chat though. We ought to do it more often.”

Russel snorted. “We can’t stand each other ninety percent of the time.”

“True enough,” Murdoc grinned. “At least we know how to make good on the last ten percent, eh? Care to come along?”

“Nah, the pub scene ain’t my thing,” Russel said and described his plans for a new machine. “Figured I’d get on it while it’s quiet. Work some newer beats in, update our sound.”

Murdoc nodded as he shrugged on a leather jacket and lit a cigarette.

“Classic man myself,” he said, “but it doesn’t hurt to have options. Be good to hear it when it’s done.”

“I’ll be sure to let you know,” Russel told him, following him out into the hall. “Have a good time. Take a fucking cab.”

Murdoc snorted to indicate derision, but grinned when Russel frowned.

“I won’t drive,” he said. “I’ve got my means. Can’t drive when you’re soused blind in any case.”

“I can’t tell if that’s reassuring or not,” Russel told him, but Murdoc only laughed him off and raised a hand as he headed for the door.

Dismissed, Russel headed to the back room set aside for tinkering. 2-D kept a bench with a vice and a few other tools on the far side of the room. He took up little space apart from a few old keyboards stacked against the wall that he cannibalized for parts and two small bins filled with random wires and bits of circuitry. Sometimes 2-D left a project lying open on the bench, but usually kept equipment to be examined in his room. Working instruments were typically stored with the rest of the band’s equipment, unless 2-D spirited one away for practise or composition.

The bulk of the room belonged to Russel.

Filled with casings and wires and speakers and switchboards, Russel needed the space to build and fine-tune the pieces of equipment that would set the rhythm and beats that formed the backbone of Gorillaz music. He had machines that focused on hip-hop and some on varieties of rock, including some jazz mixes. He had yet to build anything with a club sound, a beat that had cropped up while recording their newest album. He had cobbled together what he could and manually added the rest, but knew that if the band were to go on tour, proper equipment would be needed to simulate the rhythms of collaborators who could not always tour with them.

It would not be difficult – Russel recorded all the drum tones himself – but it would take time. Better to get a start on it now, before it became a necessity.

Fortunately, it was the kind of job he enjoyed. Ordering a pizza to sustain him, he spent several hours sorting through inventory and pre-recorded tones, making lists of what he had and what was needed, and then wandered over to storage to check the condition of their current equipment. He considered combining his newest project with their primary rhythm machine and worried about taking the latter out of commission for too long before deciding that the new equipment could be built from scratch with combined sounds, updated and fine-tuned, and the other equipment dismantled at a later date if it was so desired.

Plans made, Russel decided he was ready to turn in and passed by the front room to check on the movie-goers. 2-D was, rather predictably, asleep, sprawled with his head tilted back against the sofa cushions, snoring lightly. Noodle had tossed a couple of pillows up against him and dozed, wrapped in blankets. Dozed, but did not sleep, as she opened her eyes when Russel looked in.

“Hey,” Noodle said, voice gummy, as the movie played quietly in the background.

“Hey, yourself,” Russel replied, eying the decimated serving dishes that littered the table. “Did you manage to feed your boy?”

“Mmm,” Noodle murmured, reaching up and behind herself to ruffle the hair on the side of 2-D’s head. She succeeded after bopping him in the face only twice, an assault to which he did not respond. “He’ll sleep for a week.”

“He’ll be up in an hour with indigestion.”

“He’ll sleep for a week like a little snake.” Noodle snuggled more deeply into her blankets. “Assuming I can get him into bed. If I wake him up, he’ll want to make sure I’m in bed first. If I leave him here, he’ll be stiff and sore.”

“He’ll be stiff and sore anyway. Middle age is a bitch,” Russel informed her. “Wake him if you need to. He’ll pass out as soon as he’s in bed. It’s not like he has any problems sleeping.”

“No,” Noodle agreed, “but he might wander off to drink with Murdoc.”

“Muds took off for the night.”

“Any idea where?”

“Nah. Just out.”

“That might be all right then,” Noodle said. “2-D won’t go checking every pub in the city looking for Murdoc if he’s already tired. He’ll just sleep. I’d rather he sleep. He’s been… better. Healthier. Than he was, I mean. I… would like it to stay that way.”

Russel grinned and leaned his hip against the side of the sofa. “Love him, huh?”

“I love you, too,” Noodle reminded him.

“You love him differently.”

“That’s because _he’s_ different.” Noodle rolled over a little to toy with a bit of 2-D’s hair without smacking him a third time. “I think, in another time and place, someone would have wrung the difference out. Wrung it out or broken him. We didn’t. I’m glad.”

“Murdoc’s tried.”

“No, that’s not the same. Murdoc’s just an asshole and…”

Noodle stumbled there, but Russel could fill in the blanks well enough. Murdoc was an abuser. Of them, of 2-D, and of himself most of all.

“…and, well… he _likes_ the difference. That isn’t why he used to hit 2-D.”

“And might still,” Russel pointed out.

“No,” Noodle said with utmost certainty.

She looked up at Russel and her eyes gleamed like a cat’s in the flickering light of the television.

“Not anymore,” she intoned. “Not like he did. Not… deliberately.”

Russel wondered if Murdoc truly understood the power and strength of the girl that had arrived on their doorstep so long ago. If not, he had best learn quickly.

“You take good care of him,” Russel said, steering the conversation into calmer waters.

“Oh, don’t tell him that!” Noodle agonised, writhing around in her blankets and making a mock attempt to cover 2-D’s ears with her hands. “He doesn’t need to know!”

“He already does,” Russel informed her.

“I know. You just don’t _say_ it,” Noodle insisted, collapsing back into her blankets. “If you don’t say it, we can forget.”

“Forget?”

“That I’m strong enough to take care of myself.”

It was not the answer Russel was expecting and the silence unravelled, stretching out into the night, until Noodle spoke again.

“I’m weak too, sometimes,” she said. “Inside. People forget or are surprised. He doesn’t. He isn’t. Ever. I take care of him, and he’s healthier, but it makes him feel small. When I let him take care of me, he can be the grown-up he thinks he ought to be, and the little girl that never was is safe. Protected. Free of fear, but free to be fearful, and know what that means. But you can never say it! You can only know it.”

Noodle yawned and pushed herself up on one hip, surveying the movie snack detritus before smiling up at Russel.

“So, there. One of the secrets of the universe,” she told him. “I guess I should put some of this away.”

“Leave it,” Russel told her. “Unless you’re hoping to salvage some of your stir-fry for tomorrow.”

Noodle responded to this by flipping the last of the vegetables into the rice bowl and covering the whole with a plate.

“It’s a better breakfast at room temperature,” she said, and then stood and stretched. “Time for bed, I guess.”

“I’ll see he gets there if you can’t,” Russel told her as she leaned over to nudge 2-D awake.

“Thanks,” she told him, smiling almost shyly. “You’re the one who really takes care of us all.” She sighed at 2-D’s sleepy protests. “Come on! Get up! Don’t make me head-butt you again…”

“Watchin’ zombies,” 2-D murmured.

“We fell asleep and missed it,” Noodle told him. “We can pick it up again tomorrow. It’s bedtime now.”

2-D whined a little bit longer, and then stretched, nearly sliding off the sofa. Noodle laughed and held out her hand to steady him as he stood and stretched again, yawning.

“Hi, Russ,” 2-D said. “You work on your machine?”

“Some,” Russel told him. “Sorted out what I’ve got and what I need. Made plans.”

“Sounds like a good start.”

Russel grinned as 2-D flung an arm around his shoulders and leaned up against him in an amicable manner. Once he would have flinched, endured it a moment, and then carefully shrugged the singer off, sensitive to the intrusion on his personal space. When he was younger, he had had so little control over who or what chose to invade his mind that casual, tactile expressions felt abhorrent. He had since grown into them, and his tolerance was a point of pride. 2-D remained cautious and respectful, however, avoiding over-long periods of contact, but it pleased Russel to know they no longer upset him, particularly when they came from a friendly source.

“You okay there, D? You need another drink?”

2-D murmured indecisively, his expression sleepy and amused. He leaned a little harder just for show before tilting himself sluggishly upright, dragging his arm back over Russel’s shoulders and releasing him with a pat on the back.

“Guess it _is_ bedtime,” he said as Noodle nudged him toward the stairs. “C’mon pun’kin. Big day tomorrow.”

“Why? What’s up?” Russel said. If there were plans for the next day, he knew nothing of them.

“Dunno,” 2-D admitted as he was steered toward the bedrooms, “but it ought to be big.”

“What? Like pancakes for breakfast?”

“I’s a start.”

“You’re still drunk,” Noodle informed 2-D, sighing as he lazily tossed his arm around her and ruffled her hair. “And high. You won’t even be up for breakfast.” She smiled at the squinchy-nosed bunny-face grin he offered her and bumped him with her shoulder. “But then again, neither will I. Russel will have to work his magic another time.”

“Pancakes are good for lunch, too,” Russel reminded her as they came to a stop outside her bedroom.

“I stand corrected.” Noodle gave him a hug and did the same to 2-D, who used the opportunity to ruffle her hair further, but with both hands. “Keep that up and I’ll put your pants in the freezer again. You two have a good night.”

“‘Night pun’kin,” 2-D said, offering a little wave as Noodle retired to her room.

“She’s right. You’ve got at least half your sheets to the wind,” Russel told him.

“I’m a’right. S’not like I drive,” 2-D replied. “Where’s Murdoc?”

“He went out,” Russel told him. “Don’t know where. Just out,” he added when 2-D made a little noise of disappointment. “You should do you and Noodle both a favour and just go to bed. She gets worried about you.”

“She dun need to do that.”

“She does anyway. And I’m surprised you even want to be around Murdoc after…” Russel hesitated. He still was not certain exactly _what_ had happened at Point Nemo, only that it had not been good. “Well, after everything.”

“I dunno. He’s been better, kinda,” 2-D said. “Maybe he had a good think about it. I dunno. He hasn’t said... uh…”

Sorry, Russel thought. He’s been better because of Noodle and he hasn’t said ‘sorry’.

“He hasn’t said anything about it, but he’s been… better. An’… well…”

2-D gestured helplessly. Although he was capable of writing beautiful lyrics and capturing the essence of the moment in layers of sound, there was so much he was unable to describe in practical terms. This had irritated Russel, once upon a time, but now he felt only sympathy and patted 2-D on the back. It was hard to demonize someone who had shaped so much of your life. If they were a terrible person, what did that say about you?

“It’s fine, D. I get you,” Russel said. “But you’re not gonna find him tonight anyway, so you might as well humour Noodle and turn in.”

“I s’pose.”

Russel might have expected such words to be shrouded in dissatisfaction, but 2-D seemed content enough, his expression calm and dreamy as he hooked his thumbs into his pockets, eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the horizon. He bumped shoulders with Russel in a gesture that might have been amicable or might have been unsteady.

“You ought to come with us sometime,” 2-D said. “You ought to. It isn’t always pubs an’ things. Well, maybe pubs, but not always noisy ones. You might like some.”

“Maybe,” Russel said. “No promises though. You and Murdoc, you’ve got your thing. I’ve got mine. It’s not good or bad, just…”

He shrugged. 2-D nodded wisely.

“I’s just whatever blows your goat.”

Russel nearly choked.

“Not sure that’s right, but something like that,” he said, stifling a laugh. “You okay to turn in?”

“Well, i’s not as much fun takin’ my own clothes off, but I think I can manage,” 2-D said and Russel solved the mystery of whether or not he was joking by simply ignoring it.

It was a little harder to avoid the full-body hug 2-D laid on him, startling him into inaction. 2-D kept it brief, dancing away with a mischievous grin before Russel could recover.

“Noodle’s right,” Russel huffed, managing to lightly cuff 2-D on the ear before he ducked out of the way. “You’ve had enough. Go lie down before you get too giddy to sleep.”

“‘Kay. ‘Night, Russ.”

“‘Night, D.”

2-D disappeared behind the curtain of beads that marked the entrance to his room. Although the beads blocked his line of sight well enough, Russel thought the lack of practical privacy would bother him. 2-D seemed to prefer it though, and Russel supposed it was only natural he should feel that way after spending so much time locked away, deep beneath the ocean.

That thought returned other memories to him that he preferred to leave behind. Dismissing them, he latched on to a scrap of music that wound around his brain and hummed it under his breath as he made his way to his bedroom.

Finding the quiet of the house disconcerting after the warm and friendly atmosphere of the evening, Russel put on some headphones and pumped familiar music into his ears to fill the heavy silence. As much as he liked his space and not being used as a vessel for wandering spirits, there were some whose presence he still missed. Not much to be said or done about it, he supposed. Nothing at all, in fact, but play the music they used to love and let it lull him into a state of comfortable nostalgia.

Life could be rough, Russel mused, lying back, arms tucked behind his head, but it could also be soft, and sometimes the nights that were nothing special were the best nights of all.


End file.
